


hit the back

by starkhasheart



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (Slightly), (again: slightly), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Exhibitionism, Hair-pulling, Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Pole Dancing, Praise Kink, Riding, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), stripper!crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 07:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkhasheart/pseuds/starkhasheart
Summary: Something is up with Crowley.Aziraphale has been noticing changes in the his demeanor lately; lurking around more than usual, refusing a nightcap under the guise that he’s tired before slinking into the Soho nightlife, and, in place of paying for things with his usual sleek black credit card with no limit, he’s pulling out a multitude of bills from his wallet instead.Aziraphale just can’t glean anything from it.





	hit the back

**Author's Note:**

> hey. it's me again
> 
> i went to a strip club the other night and this is the child of that experience because i cannot stop connecting my interests to situations i'm in irl
> 
> once again this isn't beta'd
> 
> the song crowley is dancing to (and the song the fic title is from) is hit the back by king princess. u should listen to them they're good.
> 
> anyhway hope u enjoy follow me on [tumblr](http://mixedpaints.tumblr.com)

Something is up with Crowley.

Aziraphale has been noticing changes in the his demeanor lately; lurking around more than usual, refusing a nightcap under the guise that he’s tired before slinking into the Soho nightlife, and, in place of paying for things with his usual sleek black credit card with no limit, he’s pulling out a multitude of bills from his wallet instead.

Aziraphale just can’t glean anything from it.

Obviously he’s tried to bring it up with the demon, genuinely concerned, but Crowley has always brushed him off, spouting excuses and saying it’s just because he’s still not used to being unemployed. It’s been a few months since the averted Apocalypse; Aziraphale has adjusted nicely, so why hasn’t Crowley? But, the angel thinks, everyone reacts to things differently, a wily demon being no exception.

That doesn’t mean Aziraphale has stopped his attempts at goading an answer out of Crowley, though.

They’re currently sitting in Aziraphale’s backroom, the shop closed up, conversing over a vintage Cabernet. Aziraphale is very glad that they’ve spent so much time in each other’s company now that they’re free to, Crowley’s presence being an exciting part of his life; though he would be loath to admit that he enjoyed hearing stories about the demon’s wiles and temptations, but Crowley never objected to hearing Aziraphale’s tales of blessings and miracles during their six thousand years residing on Earth. Living this long and being immortal brings numerous tales that span the ages.

They’re in the middle of a conversation when Crowley spares a glance at his watch and mutters something along the lines of, “Shit, I’m late.”

“What was that, dear boy?” Aziraphale says, in the middle of pouring the demon another glass.

“Sorry, angel,” Crowley says, taking a final sip of wine before standing up. “Remembered I’ve got places to be. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

Aziraphale frowns, gently setting the wine bottle on the table before turning to face Crowley. “Whatever do you mean?”

“I’ve got…other obligations tonight,” Crowley says, and Aziraphale sees he’s trying to pick his words carefully. “Demon stuff and all that. People to see.”

“Well, Crowley, I do have to admit I find it odd that you’re still acting like you have a quota to fill,” the angel says, tone clipped, taking a sip of wine. He doesn’t mean for it to come out like that, but it’s mainly out of concern.

“Well, _Aziraphale_, I still find it fun to cause some chaos. Just like you like to do good ‘n all that. So.” Crowley’s words come out equally as snippy.

Aziraphale frowns, not wanting to start a fight between them. He still feels regret at their spat over the holy water, and the bandstand, and…well, all of their quarrels before.

“I’m sorry, dear boy, I just find myself…worried about you lately,” the angel admits. He sees Crowley frown, brows knitted in concern.

“You don’t need to worry about me, angel. Demon and all that.” He sticks his hands into his pockets, not meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. “Anyway. I gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

“All right,” Aziraphale says softly, watching Crowley saunter out of the backroom. “Goodbye, then.” He pauses. “And…be safe.”

He’s not sure that Crowley hears him.

Crowley continues to act strange, throwing up façade after façade, until Aziraphale has enough.

When the demon leaves the bookshop one night, Aziraphale devises a plan. At first he thinks he might be overreacting, and that this will completely invade Crowley’s privacy, but he feels like it’s his duty to figure out what in heaven is going on with Crowley. He is well aware that Crowley could have friends outside of him (he knows Crowley wouldn’t admit to have taken a liking to the ornery American girl with the bicycle and her clumsy boyfriend) and he reasons with himself that it’s perfectly fine, even though he doesn’t understand, because forming relationships with humans just turns into a disaster at the end when years pass, and they eventually do, too.

He gives Crowley a few minutes to get a head-start on leaving, knowing that the Bentley is already halfway to the demon’s Mayfair flat, and Aziraphale sets out, locking the bookshop behind him.

He’s been to Crowley’s flat approximately once, after Armageddon was delayed and his bookshop had been reduced to ash and dust, but with a minor miracle he remembers the exact address and number, so he hails a cab and gives the driver an address, reminding himself to tip handsomely.

Aziraphale has the cab park a block away from Crowley’s building before getting out and approaching. He pushes out his senses and feels a demonic presence in the building, and it seems that Crowley is moving around quickly in his flat, as if he’s going to be late for something. Curious, Aziraphale makes an attempt to camouflage himself in an alley, still keeping an eye on Crowley’s movements.

Eventually Crowley makes his way down the building, and outside. Aziraphale peers at him from behind the corner of the building, and the demon is illuminated by the yellow light of a street lamp, casting a golden shine on his russet locks, which Aziraphale sees Crowley’s grown out dramatically over the short time between his ride from the bookshop to his flat. It’s pulled into a low bun, strands of hair framing his face, exposing the slim expanse of his neck.

Aziraphale has always thought Crowley to be beautiful, but he’s stunning in this light.

The demon’s glaring at his phone, thumbs moving in quick succession to type out a message, before pocketing it in his too-tight jeans. Aziraphale has always thought they leave little to the imagination.

Suddenly Crowley turns to face the angel’s direction and Aziraphale instantly leaps back into the alleyway, pressing his back against the stone wall as Crowley’s footsteps approach. The angel’s heart is thumping wildly in his chest and he’s terrified the demon might be able to hear it; he would _hate_ to be discovered by Crowley, afraid of what he might think of Aziraphale, slinking through the night and spying on him.

Luckily Aziraphale’s hidden in the darkness and Crowley pays him no heed. He does halt in front of the alleyway though, and his face screws up in an expression of confusion. He shakes his head briefly, and continues his trek onward.

Once Crowley’s footsteps fade into the night Aziraphale lets out the breath he forgot he was holding. Looking both directions before walking completely out of the alley, he follows Crowley, making sure to keep his distance.

Aziraphale is led on a wild goose chase and Crowley is none the wiser.

The demon leads him through blocks and seedy alleyways, down sidewalks littered with trash, and eventually they’ve reached a part of Soho that Aziraphale is _very_ familiar with. It’s all neon lights and scantily clad women leaning over through open car windows, chatting up men inside. Aziraphale can sense love—it’s apart of the job description, obviously—but _lust_ is something he’s also familiar with, and he feels like he’s walking through a thick wall of it, like a hot knife through butter.

It’s all starting to come together in his head but he’s still missing a few pieces.

Aziraphale feels curious stares directed at him, probably for the way he’s dressed; he chooses to ignore them, instead focusing on the stares that _Crowley himself_ is getting, so full of desire that it’s making Aziraphale’s stomach churn with an emotion he can’t really name. Crowley doesn’t seem to mind, throwing out coy looks occasionally at men and women gazing at him, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.

_Cheeky tart_, Aziraphale thinks, and blushes. That’s not a way to think about your best friend.

Eventually Crowley slithers through another alleyway and Aziraphale follows a ways behind him, and sees that the demon has apparently reached his destination. He’s conversing with a strong-looking man guarding a side door to the building, which Aziraphale hadn’t noticed until now. Curious, he looks to the front, and his eyes widen almost comedically.

“_A strip club?_” he hisses to himself. “What in the _hell_ are you doing, Crowley?”

He’s in no right to judge the demon, of course, having stints in distinct gentlemen’s clubs on occasion, but he really has no idea what the hell Crowley is doing here. Unless, of course, he’s here to watch dancers and give people minor suggestions of lust, but if that’s the case, why wouldn’t he just enter through the front? Aziraphale scoots to peak over the edge of the building again just in time to see the man let Crowley in, shutting the door tightly behind him.

Well, Aziraphale thinks to himself. He’s on an investigation for a reason.

Collecting his nerves and taking a deep breath, Aziraphale approaches the doors to the club and pushes his way inside.

It’s actually quite a nice club despite its outwards appearance.

The carpet is lush and thick as Aziraphale steps inside, paying his cover charge quickly. There’s a fully stocked bar which he makes a beeline for, catching an eyeful of a dancer currently twirling around a silver pole, scantily clad in black lace, men throwing bills at him. Aziraphale swallows thickly before turning away and ordering a gin and tonic from the bartender.

Once he gets his drink Aziraphale ambles his way to a plush chair, setting his glass on the small table next to it. He sits down and his mind immediately begins to race.

If Crowley sees him here the demon might actually discorporate him, and he’ll be entirely in his right, because Aziraphale literally _stalked_ him through the streets of Soho just to figure out what the hell he’s been doing in his free time lately. He keeps trying to reassure himself that he only did this because he was genuinely worried about Crowley, afraid of him getting himself into trouble. But that’s so _obtuse_, his mind counters. Crowley is a six-thousand-year-old demon, he can easily wriggle his way out of danger at the drop of a hat.

Aziraphale throws back his drink and conjures up another just as fast. He spares a glance at the dancer currently performing, mainly all muscle, and he looks away. He _does _have a preference, and anyone who knows him would know exactly what it is.

The angel’s head lifts up when he hears an announcement overhead, signaling that the current dancer’s time is over and that a new one is coming up. He watches as the man collects the money thrown at him (and the bills tucked into his g-string) into a small pouch before sashaying off the stage, throwing a wink to a few of the men who were gazing at him as he passed.

“_Ladies and gentlemen, our next dancer is a fan favorite_,” the MC announces, and Aziraphale hears a few whoops from the small group of men around the stage that seems to be growing in anticipation. “_Known for his long legs and fiery red hair, he’s managed to capture the hearts of new and veteran club goers alike—everyone give it up for Temptation!_”

The words that immediately come out of Aziraphale’s mouth are, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

And through the beginnings of the song that starts to play and the cheering of the men surrounding the stage, Aziraphale can hear it—the click of heels against the stage floor, daunting and dangerous, can see the sway of hips, the swell of calf muscles clad in lace, attached to a pair of black silk panties that leave little to the imagination, a black corset cinched tight around a thin torso, giving him the appearance of curves—and of course his blazing red hair, falling in ringlets down his back that bounce with every step he takes in his high heels, which only makes his legs strikingly more attractive. His golden eyes are lined in coal black, his lashes dark, and his lips are painted a brilliant red.

Aziraphale crosses his legs.

Through the haze of lust clouding his head the angel can barely make out the song’s lyrics.

_I need you to search my clothing_  
Pat me down and feel the molding  
'Cause underneath this table feels so good to me  
And I need you to be my motor  
And run me 'til I can't go further  
'Cause every turn you take is just exciting me

Crowley’s got a few things in his hands: a black pouch which Aziraphale assumes is used to put money in, a cloth, and a spray bottle. The demon gives a spritz to the pole before wrapping the cloth around it and sliding it down, swaying his hips and pushing his backside out doing so. Already men are tossing one pound bills onto the stage, and Aziraphale sees Crowley grin wickedly.

Once the pole is sufficiently cleaned Crowley tosses the rag aside and wraps one hand around the metal before he spins, hooking his leg around the pole to pick up speed, and good _God_, how in the hell is he doing that? Aziraphale can see his whipcord muscles tightening as Crowley supports himself on the pole, twirling around like he weighs lighter than air. A few of the men are whistling at Crowley’s moves, and Aziraphale’s mouth is very dry, so he downs his drink and fills it up again. A part of him—an absolutely mad part of him—wants to get closer, wants to see every muscle clench underneath the demon’s pale skin, wants to see the glitter on his eyelids and cheekbones; he wants to _touch,_ to run his hands over strong calves, uncinch the corset from around the demon’s torso, and _take him all in_.

_And ain't I the best you had?_  
And I'll let you throw it down  
Hit the back  
Tell me I need respect  
And you know that I'm around  
I'm your pet

Aziraphale isn’t sure his thoughts are of his own volition or the lust drenching the room. All he knows is that his collar is too tight and he’s feeling very hot all over, and his trousers have gotten tighter.

Crowley continues to spin on the pole, holding himself up with one arm and both legs wrapped around the metal to blow a kiss to his audience. He’s doing moves that would be impossible for any human to do, and even Aziraphale is impressed. The demon moves like the snake he is, with lithe and smooth movements, his whole body swaying in beat with the music. Eventually he slides down from the pole, shaking his hips incitingly in the process, before slipping down to sit on the stage, spreading his legs wide. Aziraphale swallows as Crowley slides his hands down fishnet-clad thighs, sharp, black nails catching on the material. The men are throwing even more bills at him, their hands reaching towards him, begging for a touch, a taste.

The angel sees one brave man stick a bill in his teeth, leaning over the stage, and Crowley crawls toward him, a demure smile playing on painted lips. He lay on his back and _actually throws_ his legs over the man’s shoulders, framing his face in his hands before bringing him close, taking the bill in between his teeth. The man’s hands begin to roam Crowley’s body, mapping out his neck, chest, sides, his hands eventually settling on the swell of Crowley’s ass.

_Well I'm a star but you're an icon_  
A dirty girl with lots of passion  
Staring at my fingers while I talk to you  
And I don't care if you degrade me  
'Cause after all, you are my safety  
And everything you touch just feels like yours to me

Something primal burns in Aziraphale’s chest and he very much wants the man’s hands off Crowley’s body. In fact, he doesn’t want _any_ of these men near Crowley. It’s clear they’re only seeing him as an object and it makes the angel’s blood boil.

Crowley seems to be enjoying himself though, and Aziraphale has never seen him look so ‘in the zone’, as one would put it. The demon isn’t his property, Aziraphale reminds himself. He can do as he pleases.

Unfortunately, Crowley’s time on stage draws to a close, and after picking up all the money that had been thrown at him, he blows a final kiss to the men crowding the stage before sashaying away, and Aziraphale can’t take his eyes off the demon’s ass as he leaves.

Aziraphale is fucked. He’s completely _fucked_.

He shouldn’t have done this. He shouldn’t have come here. He should have minded his own business and stayed holed up in the bookshop. But now, he’s sitting in this club, the image of Crowley in lingerie and swinging on a pole burning into his mind, and his cock straining his trousers.

Aziraphale needs to _move_. He needs to sober up and stand up and hurry out of the club, but there’s a pleasant buzzing in the back of his head, like he’s almost been entranced by the demon’s dancing and swaying hips. He brings his glass to his lips, hand shaking, taking a tentative sip. Maybe the burn of alcohol will knock him out of his trance.

_Lord_, he can’t get the images out of his mind. Crowley seemed like he was enjoying himself, having men throw money at him while he strutted on stage and basically made love to a slick metal pole. Aziraphale saw how his amber eyes were alight, how he took in the lustful gazes of the men lining the stage like a snake desperate for sunlight.

It all starts to come together in Aziraphale’s head.

“Hey, angel.”

Aziraphale startles, almost spilling his drink, letting out a pitiful squeak. His head jerks around in search of the voice and he finds the owner standing right in front of him. Crowley’s got his hands on his hips, hair pulled into a low bun, a black kimono covering his form, giving at least a small air of decency. He’s still sporting the high heels, making him tower over the angel intimidatingly.

“Oh—Crowley, I, um, h-hello?” the angel stammers, flustered at being found out and also by the demon rising above him. “F-Fancy seeing you here! Of all places.”

“Could say the same for you,” Crowley murmurs, and despite the loud music of the club, Crowley’s voice is the only thing Aziraphale seems to hear. “Knew you fancied gentlemen’s clubs back in the day but I didn’t think you’d be for somewhere like this.”

“W-Well, I, erm, I think it’s an okay establishment,” Aziraphale croaks.

Crowley chuckles darkly, strutting forward until he’s leaning over the angel, Aziraphale having to crane his neck to make eye contact, which is very hard at the moment considering Crowley’s liquid gold irises are burning holes in Aziraphale’s face.

“I just think it’s _interesssting_, angel,” Crowley hisses, lips curling up to reveal sharper-than-average canines, “that you and I happen to be in the same place at the same time when I’m quite certain you didn’t even know this club existed until tonight. Could it be _you’re_ the one responsible for the angelic presence I felt tagging along with me all night, or would you care to offer up an explanation?”

Crowley cocks his head to the side, loose auburn ringlets jostling with the movement, and Aziraphale is almost too entranced to answer. He clears his throat, feeling the alcohol thrumming through his veins before he clears it away, scrunching his face in displeasure. The demon raises a perfectly arched brow.

“I…” the angel begins, unsure of how to start. _Oh, to hell with it all_, he thinks. “You know I worry about you, Crowley. I noticed you had been acting strange lately; always ending our evenings early, getting snippy when I questioned why, and…and carrying around a lot of money when you always pay with a card. Anyway.” Aziraphale gazes Crowley’s heeled shoes. “I was worried about you. I was afraid something was happening—or was _going_ to happen to you, and I…I couldn’t bear the thought of you getting hurt, or…worse.” He swallows, twiddling his thumbs. “So I followed you here. From your flat.”

Crowley blinks down at Aziraphale, red lips rounded into an ‘o’. He seems at a loss for words, so Aziraphale continues.

“I’m deeply sorry, Crowley. It was foolish and selfish of me to breach your privacy like this. And please don’t think I’m going to shame you for it,” Aziraphale says quickly, fluttering his hands in anxiety. “It’s legitimate work, and you seemed as if you were having a grand time doing so.”

“You saw my…whole performance?” is the only thing Crowley says, Aziraphale seeing a blush rising high on his cheekbones.

“Er, yes,” Aziraphale replies, and since he’s already dug himself deep into a hole he will never climb out of, he adds on, “You looked very alluring.” _You still do_.

Aziraphale has always seen Crowley has a suave, sleek demon, with his snappy remarks and witty comebacks, his dark clothes and shades, but now he’s seeing a completely different side of Crowley. the demon raises a hand to cover his mouth, eyes roaming around the club so he doesn’t have to look at the angel. His face is almost as red as his hair.

“Crowley? Are you all right?” Aziraphale asks softly. “I can leave—”

“No—ngk—please don’t go, Aziraphale,” Crowley stammers out behind his hand. His eyes are flicking back and forth from Aziraphale’s to, presumably, the floor. “I just…I didn’t think you’d be so…affected by it.”

“What on earth do you m—” Aziraphale follows Crowley’s gaze which is trained on his crotch, with a very prominent tent in his trousers. The angel feels his face go up in flames. “Oh, goodness, I should probably go—”

“I can help you, if you want,” Crowley interrupts, and the silence following his statement is deafening.

Many things flash through Aziraphale’s mind at once, all of them concerning his dear friend in front of him, wrapped up gorgeously like a present under a tree. There are glimpses of the time they’ve spent together, their conversations and laughing fits and petty arguments and full-blown spats, and the feelings that the angel has harbored for the demon come into full focus. Crowley is temptation personified, but Aziraphale doesn’t need any demonic suggestions when it comes to the feelings he’s had for Crowley since he tore the bag of books from the dead Nazi’s hand.

Aziraphale raises his hand and conjures up a thick roll of a hundred pound notes, and Crowley gasps softly when the angel leans over and tucks them into the band of his panties.

“Take me to the nicest private room available, if you please.”

When the door latches shut and locks, they’re on each other immediately.

Aziraphale’s hands are framing Crowley’s face as he shoves him against the door and kisses him roughly, delighting in the moan that Crowley makes at the contact. Part of him wants to tear what little clothing Crowley has on off and have him against the door right now, but the reasonable part of him wants to take his time, savoring the demon as if he were the finest meal at the poshest restaurant imagined.

“Aziraphale, angel, _ah_,” Crowley pants, as Aziraphale moves from his mouth to pepper kisses along his prominent jawline, trailing down to his neck and throat, taking skin between teeth and sucking. “If you leave a mark the other men will be jealous—”

“Let them,” Aziraphale nearly growls into the crook of Crowley’s neck, and the demon shivers. Their lips meet again in desperation, as if any second without contact will lead up to discorporation. “Do you have any idea how gorgeous you looked on that stage? I wanted to push those men aside and _ravish_ you.”

Crowley moans wantonly at this, turning his head to the side to allow Aziraphale more access to place mark upon mark on his pale throat. The angel gently lifts the kimono off Crowley’s shoulders, letting it pool on the floor in a black puddle before lavishing the demon’s freckled shoulders with kisses and love-bites.

“Bet you’d enjoy that,” Crowley says breathlessly, grinding against the thigh that Aziraphale’s shoved unceremoniously between his legs. “Bloody hedonist.”

“I think you’d enjoy it too,” Aziraphale counters, sinking his teeth into a prominent collarbone. “I saw how you took in all the men’s lustful gazes; how you _thrived_ on it. Bit of an exhibitionist, aren’t we?”

Crowley freezes, and the angel feels like he’s struck a nerve. He scrambles to apologize, but the look on Crowley’s face stops him: his face is flushed and his yellow eyes are glazed over, his lips swollen from rough kisses, and he’s gazing at Aziraphale with such a genuine expression of vulnerability that his heart pangs.

“It makes me feel good,” Crowley whispers. “To be looked at. To be seen. To be…to be wanted.”

Aziraphale’s heart absolutely shatters to pieces in his chest as the puzzle is finally solved. He cups Crowley’s face in his hands, rubbing a manicured thumb over one of his cheekbones, his face warming Aziraphale’s palms.

“My darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, gazing into Crowley’s eyes, which have grown watery. “I’m looking at you right now. I’m _seeing_ you. And I _want_ you. I’ve wanted you for years but I’ve been too cowardly to admit it, outwardly and to myself. But I’m here now, and I’ll be here for as long as you need.”

“Forever,” the demon rasps. “Please, angel.”

“Of course, my dear.” And they kiss again, this time gently, lips moving against each other softly, but there’s still that edge of need in it, and it only grows sharper as the kiss progresses.

Crowley’s erection is prominent now, the flushed head of his cock peaking above the hem of his panties. Aziraphale presses himself flush against Crowley to garner some friction and the redhead moans at the contact, rolling his hips against Aziraphale’s stomach. Aziraphale sucks a line of bruises down his throat before murmuring, “What do you want, dearest? I’ll give you anything you want.”

“God, angel, I—mm,” Crowley’s voice trails off into a whimper when Aziraphale’s hands go to cup his ass. “I want your cock in my mouth, I’ve been thinking about it ever since I saw the tent it pitched in your trousers.”

Aziraphale moans at Crowley’s confession and pulls off of him, not before giving him a kiss that makes the demon’s head swim. Lacing their fingers together, Aziraphale guides Crowley to the plush sofa in the middle of the room, sitting down while the demon towers above him, gazing at him with an expression so fond it nearly chokes the angel up. Crowley mumbles something under his breath that Aziraphale doesn’t catch. “What was that, Crowley?”

“I said,” Crowley murmurs, “that you can…you can be rough with me, if you want.”

A shiver shoots down Aziraphale’s spine and he contemplates this; the largest part of him wants to do nothing but lavish Crowley in love and affection, giving him all his attention. He can’t even fathom being cruel to the demon, especially in this state. However, there’s a voice in the back of his head whispering to give the demon what he wants, to indulge his fantasies, and Aziraphale will do anything to make Crowley happy.

“On your knees then,” Aziraphale says, voice husky. “Do what I paid you to do.”

Crowley’s hips twitch forward and a pitiful whimper is torn from his throat before he sinks down to his knees in front of Aziraphale. Crowley leans closer immediately, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Aziraphale’s clothed cock, leaving lipstick marks in his wake. Aziraphale can’t even bring himself to care about the state of his clothes as Crowley’s clever hands make quick work of his fly and are pulling his cock out. The angel moans at the sight of his cock in Crowley’s hand, watching him jerk it off slightly before bringing his mouth to it, pressing a chaste kiss to the head.

Crowley flattens his tongue against the base and Aziraphale feels it _split_, the demon dragging the appendage up the length of Aziraphale’s cock, tracing over every vein. He whorls it around the head of the angel’s cock before opening his mouth to swallow him down. Aziraphale keens, hips jerking out of habit, and his cockhead brushes against the back of Crowley’s throat, but he doesn’t gag. His throat merely constricts around Aziraphale’s dick and the angel’s eyelids flutter closed.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, relaxing into the sofa as the demon swallows him down without effort. He spares him a glance, watching as Crowley hollows his cheeks and sucks, his painted lips drawn tight around the angel’s dick, leaving marks, _claiming_ him. “I wasn’t aware your mouth could be more than all talk.”

Crowley chuckles around his cock, the vibrations making him quake. Eventually Aziraphale pulls Crowley up into his lap to kiss him, and he tastes his own salt against Crowley’s tongue. The demon moans into his mouth, framing his face with his hands, dragging sharp, black acrylics through cotton-puff hair. Aziraphale allows his hands to wander, skating to the back of Crowley’s corset, gently undoing the strings and allowing the demon to be free. Once the corset is off Aziraphale is finally able to rake his nails down Crowley’s flushed chest, grinning against his mouth when Crowley whimpers as he tweaks his nipples. Aziraphale trails kisses down Crowley’s throat and takes a nipple in his mouth when he reaches Crowley’s chest, and _sucks_.

“A-Ah,” Crowley gasps, gripping Aziraphale’s hair tight in his fists. “Th-They’re really sensitive, angel.”

“Good,” is all Aziraphale says in response, thumb brushed against one nipple while he busies his mouth with the other. Crowley whimpers, rutting his clothed cock against Aziraphale’s stomach while the angel busies himself teasing Crowley’s chest.

“Aziraphale,” he whispers. “I—I need—”

“Tell me, dear,” Aziraphale murmurs against Crowley’s skin, pressing a kiss to his sternum.

“I need you _inside_ me,” Crowley finally ekes out, hiding his face in the crook of Aziraphale’s neck.

Aziraphale chuckles, craning his neck to press a kiss to Crowley’s snake tattoo. “Anything for you, dear. How do you want me?”

“I’ve been thinking about riding your cock all night, if we’re being honest,” Crowley mumbles, but he’s staring Aziraphale straight in the eyes. His pupils are blown wide and the angel shivers.

“I appreciate the honestly,” Aziraphale says, voice thick. He’s got his hands on Crowley’s panties. “Do you value these at all?”

Crowley can’t even say no before Aziraphale’s fingers dig into the fabric and it _rips_, Aziraphale’s nails tearing it to ribbons. Crowley’s cock is finally released and he moans as cool air hits his flesh, and at Aziraphale’s display of angelic strength. Now all he’s clad in are his fishnet stockings and heels, but he feels completely bare under Aziraphale’s touch, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Aziraphale can finally dig his nails into Crowley’s ass, massaging the muscles before spreading him wide. Crowley hears a snap of fingers and immediately following it there’s a lubed digit circling his hole, preparing him. Crowley sighs, rocking back against Aziraphale’s finger, eager for it to slide inside, stretching him.

Aziraphale tuts. “Needy,” he says, before taking one of Crowley’s earlobes in his mouth, laving it with his tongue. Crowley shivers, a sharp keen coming from his throat.

Eventually the angel humors him, sliding one digit inside of Crowley, and the demon whimpers, clutching at Aziraphale’s jacket. Aziraphale reaches to cup Crowley’s face with his free hand, forcing the demon to look him in the eyes before he brings him down for a kiss, gentle but laden in urgency, ultimately laced in pure _love_. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale murmurs reverently, staring up at Crowley like he’s a work of art in a museum, to be looked at, to be praised. He gently adds another finger, thrusting into Crowley slowly, drawing the most beautiful sounds out of the demon’s lips, where lipstick has smudged and stained. He looks absolutely _wrecked_ and Aziraphale has barely gotten started. “You’re so beautiful, Crowley. You’ve always been lovely, but I’ve never seen you like this”—he punctuates his statement by crooking his fingers just so, and oh, the _reaction_ he gets from Crowley, a full-body shiver and gasp that sounds like it was punched out of him—“and I feel like the luckiest angel in the world.”

Crowley wheezes out a weak laugh, his hips rolling, fucking himself on Aziraphale’s fingers. He chokes when the angel scissors his digits before adding a third finger, and Crowley can only heave a whine of Aziraphale’s name.

“Please, Aziraphale, I need you,” he begs, tears pricking his eyes, either from the stimulation or the emotions he’s feeling, he isn’t sure.

“I know, dearheart, but I don’t want to hurt you,” Aziraphale soothes, brushing a thumb across Crowley’s cheekbone. Crowley’s begun to fuck himself against the angel’s fingers with vigor now, eyelids fluttering, lips slightly parted.

“What if I—mm, _God_—want you to hurt me?” Crowley counters, his argument weakened considerably with his needy tone.

Aziraphale hums, letting Crowley’s words sit in his head for consideration. He purses his lips before jabbing his fingers against the demon’s prostate, ripping a wanton howl out of his throat, his back arching beautifully.

Aziraphale smiles. “That’s too bad, my dear. I paid to have you all night and I’m going to do _exactly_ what I want with you.” The angel pauses, brow furrowing. “Unless, of course, you don’t want me to do something. If that’s the case, please let me know.”

“I don’t think there’s anything you could do to me right now that I wouldn’t want,” Crowley moans, burrowing his face in Aziraphale’s neck.

“Be that as it may, we should still have a signal to tell me if I need to stop,” Aziraphale whispers, pressing his lips to Crowley’s ear. “How about _apple?_”

Crowley snorts against Aziraphale’s skin. “Really, angel?”

“What? It’s easy to remember.” Aziraphale uses his free hand to coax Crowley out of the crook of his shoulder, gazing lovingly into yellow eyes. “I just want this to be good for you, darling. You deserve everything good in the world.”

“Ngk,” is Crowley’s intelligent reply. “I don’t deserve anything.”

“A lie, that,” the angel says, gently extracting his fingers from Crowley, making him whine in protest. “You’re wonderful.”

“And you’re incorrigible—_oh_,” and Crowley is drawn speechless when he feels the head of Aziraphale’s cock pressing against his relaxed entrance. “Oh, fuck, yes, Aziraphale—”

The initial breach of Aziraphale’s cock inside of Crowley is slow, allowing the demon to get used to the intrusion. Crowley is shaking, Aziraphale running hands down his back, soothing him. And finally, when Aziraphale is completely bottomed out and buried deep inside the demon, does Crowley let out a deep sigh he had been holding.

Crowley begins to roll his hips experimentally, the feeling of Aziraphale’s cock shifting inside him making him moan shamelessly. Aziraphale places his hands on both of Crowley’s hips, digging his fingers into flesh, wanting to mark the demon, to claim. Images of the men grabbing and touching Crowley flash through his head and he grits his teeth, jabbing his hips up into Crowley, forcing a cry out of him.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Aziraphale hisses into Crowley’s neck, dragging his tongue up the expanse of his throat as Crowley begins to slam himself down onto the angel’s cock. “I _loathed_ seeing all of those men putting their disgusting hands on you. You just soaked up their attention though, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Crowley whines, tears pricking his eyes, threatening to spill and smear his makeup. “I like when people watch me, it makes me f-feel good, angel, _yes_—”

“You don’t need their attention anymore, my love,” Aziraphale calms, reaching up to tug Crowley’s hair out of its bun, auburn locks cascading down his back and shoulders like a waterfall. “I have you now. I’ll give you all the attention you want. I’ll give you _everything_.”

Aziraphale wraps his hand in Crowley’s hair, feeling the soft strands around his fingers, before _tugging_. Crowley gasps, head flying back, eyelids fluttering. While his neck is exposed, Aziraphale lavishes it in kisses and bites, adding to the bruises already blossoming across pale skin. It’s driving the angel crazy, the thought that he’s leaving his mark on Crowley, and that the demon will wake up tomorrow and will be covered in bruises from Aziraphale’s mouth, muscles aching in memory of the angel fucking up into him.

“If you still want to dance,” Aziraphale says roughly, kissing Crowley’s chin, “I can see about getting a pole installed in the bookshop. I’d love it if you danced for me every night.”

“God, angel, yes,” Crowley pants, slamming himself down impossibly hard on Aziraphale’s cock, his movements growing uncoordinated as he’s chasing his pleasure. “The only attention I want is yours—_ah!_”

Aziraphale gives a particularly rough thrust upward and Crowley chokes, chest heaving and face flushed, tear trails streaking black down his face. His lipstick is smeared and the angel knows his face must be covered in it; Crowley’s own claim on him.

Suddenly there’s a rhythmic tapping on the door, and Aziraphale is surprised he picks it up over Crowley’s litany of moans and whimpers.

“Temptation, what the fuck are you doing? You’re on in three minutes!” a voice calls from behind the door, sounding irritated.

Hands, greedy and disgusting, grabbing for Crowley; lust-filled eyes gazing upon him as if he were some object—it all rushes through Aziraphale’s head and he actually _snarls_, “He’s busy right now, kindly _fuck off_.”

Crowley barks out a breathy laugh, clearly struck surprised by the angel’s countenance. “That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen you do, angel.”

“Anything for you, darling,” Aziraphale murmurs, before drawing Crowley down into a kiss.

Crowley’s raising himself up and throwing himself down on Aziraphale’s cock just as quick now, and he’s been reduced to high-pitched whines, so unlike the cocky, self-assured demon Aziraphale is so familiar with. The fact that Aziraphale is making him like this just makes the angel thrust up into Crowley harder, hitting all the right spots that make Crowley scream.

“God, yes, angel right there,” he gasps, and Aziraphale can feel him drawing tighter around his cock; he’s on the verge. “Right there, right there, yes, yes, _yes_—”

“Come for me, Crowley,” Aziraphale commands, digging his nails into Crowley’s hips. “Show me how good I’ve made you feel.”

“Ah—ah—_Aziraphale_,” and with a sigh so love and lust drunk Crowley finds his release, clenching around the angel while white strands of come shoot between him and Aziraphale, sullying his clothes (which were a tad ripped from Crowley’s nails). His mouth is agape and his eyelids are fluttering, russet lashes brushing against flushed cheekbones. He looks breathtaking, Aziraphale thinks, and the angel want to commit this image to memory for the rest of his immortal life.

Aziraphale cups his hands under Crowley’s thighs in order to hoist him off his cock, but the demon hisses, “If you don’t come _inssside_ me this instant I’ll discorporate us both.”

And what can Aziraphale do, besides oblige his demon? He grips Crowley’s hips and slams up into him once, twice, thrice, before he’s coming with a gasp of Crowley’s name, pulsing inside him and filling him up. Crowley sighs, his whole body lax against Aziraphale, head resting against his shoulder.

The two man-shaped entities sit in silence, the only sound the muted beats of the club’s music and their soft panting. After a few moments, Crowley slowly lifts his head, gazing at the angel with a blissed out, love-drunk expression. A dopey smile plays on his lips.

“Hi.”

“Hello, darling. I trust you’re well?”

“Never better,” Crowley says softly, and Aziraphale smiles, leaning in to kiss him.

“I suppose we should clean up and head out, shouldn’t we?” the angel ponders, tracing circles on Crowley’s hip.

“Yeah, I guess so. Um.” Crowley looks sheepish. “So. Er. You said something about a pole in the bookshop—”

“If you want it, dear, it shall be yours. I did say I’d enjoy it if you danced for me every night, didn’t I?”

They eventually extract themselves from each other and clean up, Crowley miracling up a more tasteful (yet still revealing) outfit, putting his hair into a high bun. Aziraphale notices, as the two walk through the club, the angel’s arm over the demon’s shoulder, they’re being stared at; specifically by the men that were Crowley’s audience, and they weren’t happy. It also doesn’t help that the demon’s not hiding all the love-bites dotting his neck, almost as if he’s proud of them.

One of the men actually looks like he’s about to approach them, and with a quick glare from the angel, suddenly the man’s shoelaces tie themselves together and he falls flat on his face. Crowley sees this and smothers a guffaw with his hand, watching as the man attempts to scramble up.

“I won’t be coming back here anytime soon,” Crowley says softly as they make it outside, Aziraphale’s arm still thrown around his shoulders.

“Er,” Aziraphale starts, faltering. “If you liked it then please don’t let me stop you from continuing. I want you to be happy.”

“Nah, angel. Just liked all the attention.” Crowley brings a hand to Aziraphale’s cheek and kisses him chastely on the lips. “But I’ve got all I need now.” A wicked grin spreads across his newly painted lips. “And I’ll dance for you any time you want as soon as you get a pole installed.”

“I’ll call someone tomorrow, how about that, darling?”

“Sounds good. Oh, and Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

A pause. “I love you.”

There is no hesitation now. “I love you, too, Crowley. I always will.”

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think. if you are tired of my bullshit simply paypal me $8,000 for my troubles


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